


The Monk Story (Among Others)

by kbaycolt



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Beelzebub needs a break, Crack, Crowley tortures the denizens of hell, Humor, please help these poor demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 03:18:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kbaycolt/pseuds/kbaycolt
Summary: Crowley likes to tell jokes in Hell.





	1. The Monk Story

The first time Crowley had requested that Beelzebub gather a bunch of demons to listen to him tell a joke, she'd downright refused.

It was a waste of time, and more importantly, she hated Crowley and wanted him out of Hell as much as possible. However, he'd been insistent, and so to get him out of her hair, she reluctantly agreed. A one time thing, she told him.

Alas.

So here they were, sitting in a dimly-lit room on foldable plastic chairs with Crowley at the head. He smirked a bit, and began his joke. "A man is driving down the road and breaks down near a monastery."

"I already don't like this," Ligur muttered.

"He goes to the monastery, knocks on the door, and says, 'My car broke down. Do you think I could stay the night?' The monks graciously accept him, feed him dinner, even fix his car. As the man tries to fall asleep, he hears a very strange sound. The next morning, he asks the monks what the sound was, but they say, 'We can't tell you. You're not a monk.'"

"Do the monks die in the end?" Hastur called out.

Crowley shushed him loudly. "The man is disappointed but thanks them anyway and goes about his merry way. Some years later, The same man breaks down in front of the same monastery. The monks again accept him, feed him, and again fix his car. That night, he hears the same strange noise that he had heard years earlier. The next morning, he asks what it is, but the monks reply, 'We can't tell you. You're not a monk.' The man says, 'All right, all right. I'm dying to know. If the only way I can find out what that sound was is to become a monk, how do I become a monk?'"

Shifting his position, Crowley kicked his legs up on a table which had miraculously appeared.

"The monks reply, 'You must travel the earth and tell us how many blades of grass there are and the exact number of sand pebbles, when you find these numbers, you will become a monk.'"

"That's stupid," Dagon said.

"Who would waste their time on that?" Hastur agreed.

"The man sets about his task," Crowley continued, talking over the bored demons. "Some 54 years later, he returns and knocks on the door of the monastery. He says, 'I have traveled the earth and have found what you have asked for. There are 145,236,284,232 blades of grass and 231,281,219,999,129,382 sand pebbles on the earth.'" He paused, eyeing the group. "Lord Beelzebub, if you would please remember this number."

"Fine," Beelzebub grumbled.

"The monks reply, 'Congratulations. You are now a monk. We shall now show you the way to the sound.'"

"I don't think that's how you become a monk," Ligur said, frowning.

"Well, I don't think that shade of grime is flattering on you," Crowley shot back. Ligur picked at his shirt with a scowl. "Anyway. The monks lead the man to a wooden door where the head monk says, 'The sound is right behind that door.' The man reaches for the knob, but the door is locked. He says, 'May I have the key?' The monks give him the key, and he opens the door. Behind the wooden door is another door made of stone."

"Two doors? Why?" Hastur asked. "I think one door is sufficient."

"You're ruining my suspense building," Crowley lamented.

"Just get on with it," Beelzebub groaned.

"Right, right." Crowley cleared his throat. "The man demands the key to the stone door. The monks give him the key, and he opens it, only to find a door made of ruby. He demands another key from the monks, who provide it. Behind that door is another door, this one made of sapphire."

Crowley continued to list how each door opened to find another door behind it, made of a different material every time, until he'd reached more ridiculous materials, like sugarcane and feathers. Everyone was waiting patiently for him to get to the punchline.

"Finally, the monks say, 'This is the last key to the last door.' The man is relieved to know that he has finally reached the end. He unlocks the door, and behind it he is amazed to find the source of that strange sound." A smug, wicked grin found its way onto Crowley's face. "But I can't tell you what it is because you're not a monk."

Silence.

Hastur turned a very dark shade of red, Ligur clenched his teeth so hard he could see stars, and Dagon's hand crept dangerously close to a dagger on her waistband.

"What was the point of remembering the numbers?" Beelzebub growled.

"It was just to make sure you were listening," Crowley replied.

"That was the whole joke," Ligur said flatly.

Crowley hummed his assent. He seemed to take note of the gathered demons' rising fury, so he picked himself up from the chair, bid them a hasty goodbye, and headed back up to Earth.

"Thirty minutes of my life wasted," Hastur complained, while Ligur dragged him out of the auditorium.

Beelzebub pressed two fingers to her temples. "Never again, Dagon. Never again."


	2. Grass Houses

The next time was both an accident and a mistake on Beelzebub's part.

She'd received an annoyingly cheerful memo from Crowley describing his latest fantastic temptations, which, though she hated to admit it, were quite impressive. Still, she crumpled up the paper without reading the rest.

If she had read the last sentence, she would've known to send the memo back if Crowley wasn't allowed to tell her another joke. Unfortunately, he took the lack of a response as the green light to skip on back to Hell and find her in her personal office room.

Though she was normally more aware, she'd been doing paperwork all day and was exhausted. She bent over the last sheet, narrowing her eyes at the inked words.

"Once upon a time..."

Beelzebub let out an undignified yelp and whirled around. "Crowley!"

From where he was perched in the corner, Crowley continued nonchalantly, "... there was an island kingdom whose people were all fabulously wealthy. Even though they could afford to live wherever they wanted, tradition forbade them from leaving their tiny island home."

"How the fuck did you get in here?"

"Unlocked doors, unsent memos," Crowley replied quickly before moving onto the rest of the story. "Eventually, their king became frustrated and called a meeting of the tribe's elders. He said he wanted them to figure out a way he could enjoy his wealth and stay within the traditional guidelines."

Beelzebub mentally slapped herself for not reading the rest of the memo. Resigning herself to her fate, she slumped back in her chair and sighed.

"After much consideration, the elders suggested he build a magnificent throne. When he objected there was not enough room in his grass hut for the throne, the elders suggested he hire an engineer to fix the problem. Soon, the king's hut was hooked up with an elaborate system of ropes and pulleys. During the day, he could lower the throne, and during the night, he could lower the bed."

"Sounds like a hassle," Beelzebub muttered.

Crowley shrugged. "Unfortunately, after months of constant use, the ropes frayed, and one night, the throne slipped and came crashing down on the king, killing him. The elders recognized a lesson in this experience. They added to the lore of their people this statement..."

A dramatic pause. Crowley lifted one eyebrow and grinned.

"... people who live in grass houses should not stow thrones."

For a long moment, Beelzebub said nothing. She stared at Crowley with a tight-lipped grimace. Finally, she said stiffly, "get out of my office."

"Can do, m'Lord."

Once he was gone, Beelzebub grabbed the discarded memo off of the ground and burned it to ashes.


	3. Pink Ping Pong Balls

At this point, Beelzebub had stopped dealing with Crowley directly and instead handed off all of the responsibility to Hastur and Ligur. They hated it, but as their superior, Beelzebub could pretty much tell them to do whatever and they'd have to.

However, when it came to Crowley, she'd given them specific instructions to turn him away whenever possible.

That didn't stop the nuisance from slipping past them.

By the time Hastur and Ligur had found him, Crowley was sitting in a chair on a dilapidated stage, leaning back casually and clearly just beginning to tell a joke.

In the corner, Beelzebub stuffed in her ear plugs and shot Hastur a dark glare that promised hefty punishments once Crowley was gone.

"A rich man had a son. For the son's sixteenth birthday, the father planned to make the birthday perfect and asked his son what he wanted. He promised to buy the son anything in the world. The son thought about this for a long time before simply saying, 'I want one pink ping pong ball.'"

"Why?" Hastur blurted, eyebrows tugged together in confusion.

"To fuck yourself with, that's why," Crowley snapped. "Shut up and listen. Now, though confused, the father agreed. On the son's birthday, when it was time to open the presents, there was only a single, pink ping pong ball. The son was ecstatic. He scampered up to his room with the pink ping pong ball, and the father never saw it again. A year later, he asked his son what he wanted for his birthday.

After a while, the son responded, 'I want a whole crate of pink ping pong balls.'"

"How much is this going to escalate?" Dagon whispered to Beelzebub, who could still, regrettably, hear Crowley's story.

"When the time came to open gifts, there was only a large box," Crowley continued. "The son opened it an found a whole crate of pink ping pong balls. The son was ecstatic. He scampered up to his room with the pink ping pong balls, and the father never saw the crate again.

The next year, without a pause, the son replied to his father's questions with, 'I want a truckload of pink ping pong balls.' The father was still very confused, but he didn't question it. When the son's birthday came around, he was presented with a truckload of pink ping pong balls. The son was ecstatic and scampered into the back of the truck. Five hours later, when he came out, the truck was empty and there were no pink ping pong balls in sight."

"What the fuck is going on," Ligur said.

"Another year passed," Crowley said. He paused for a second to catch his breath, then continued. "The father wanted to outdo himself this year, but when he asked his son, the son immediately told him, 'I want a warehouse filled with pink ping pong balls.' The father desperately wanted to know what the pink ping pong balls were for, but he respected his son's privacy and didn't ask questions. On the day of the party, the son got in a car to go to the warehouse. The father instructed the driver to ask the son what the pink ping pong balls were for.

Alas, the son skillfully dodged the questions," Crowley lamented, raising one hand to splay dramatically across his forehead. "They pulled up to the warehouse, the son got out, and told the driver to not enter the warehouse. In the morning, when the driver came to pick him up, the warehouse was completely empty and there was not a single pink ping pong ball to be found."

"What?" Hastur cried, tossing his hands up. "How are they all gone?"

"Now, the father's curiosity had grown to such a point that he was willing to do whatever it took next year to find out what the pink ping pong balls were used for. However, a month before the son's birthday, he was in a terrible accident. Distraught over his son's injuries, the father promised he would get the son whatever he wanted. The son painstakingly asked, 'I want one pink ping pong ball.'

The father, bewildered and shocked, blurted, 'what the hell do you do with all those damn pink ping pong balls?'

The son replied, 'I will tell you after you bring me the pink ping pong ball.'"

"Still?" Beelzebub asked tiredly.

"If nothing else, at least the father would know about the pink ping pong balls. He bought one, and gave it to the son. 'Now, please tell me. What do you do with the pink ping pong balls?'

'I use... I use them for...' And the son died from his injuries."

Crowley narrowly missed the chair thrown at his head from Beelzebub's corner of the room.


	4. Ahead (A Head)

Every week, Dagon was tasked with changing all of the locks in Hell for "unknown" reasons. She knew that Beelzebub was adamant they change the locks frequently.

(No one mentioned Crowley, though everyone knew that was the real reason.)

And yet, despite everything, the fucking snake found his way into Hell.

He'd seemed to be content with his small crowd of Hastur, Ligur, Dagon, and Beelzebub recently, but Hastur had dragged several other demons into this storytime in order to distribute the suffering a bit. It was working.

"Once upon a time there was a little boy," Crowley spoke loudly, projecting his voice across the slightly-larger room he'd miracled up for this occasion. "This little boy was born with a strange condition. You see, this little boy was born without a body. He had no arms, no legs, and no torso. He was just a head."

A few demons nodded a bit in appreciation. Beelzebub internally groaned.

"Because he was still a little boy head, he had little boy desires and his parents couldn't bear to see him in his room, just sitting there lonely, nothing to do. So his parents glued his head to a piece of 2x4 board so it would stay upright. They decided to set the little boy's head onto his window sill in his room during the day so he could watch all the other boys across the street play catch in the field. At least then, he could imagine being a regular boy and playing ball outside with other regular boys.

So every day, he watched the other kids play catch, and every night he went to bed he wished really hard to be a normal boy with arms, legs and a torso so he could go across the street and play with the other kids. He was so lonely. All he could do was roll around in his room, because he was nothing but a head.

One particular night, the little boy head had enough. He was becoming depressed, anxious, and he could not hold out any longer. He couldn't do it. This was no life for a little boy, being glued to a board and spending his days gazing longingly out a window where just across the street was a life he knew he'd never have.

It was just about time for his parents to come and carry him into bed. The sun was dipping below the horizon as he watched all the other boys laugh and fake punch each other as they left the field to go home on their regular legs to their regular lives.

It was then that the little boy saw it. A shooting star."

"Those don't work," Dagon pointed out.

"Thank you for the observation, Captain Obvious," Hastur said dryly.

"Quickly, he wished, wished, and wished really hard," Crowley continued. "This was his last chance, because if this didn't work, he might become depressed forever and watch television for the rest of his days. He wished for the biggest wish of all, that he might become a regular little boy with regular arms and regular legs so he could go play with the other regular boys. After some time of wishing very hard, he fell asleep on the window sill. His mother came and tucked him in as he slumbered.

The next morning, blanket up to his chin, he awoke to the sound of cheerful birds singing and rays of sunlight peeking through his curtains drawing shapes on his bedroom wall. He could hear the regular boys playing across the street, laughing and joking gleefully.

Still groggy from sleep, he felt something. Something under the covers. Looking down, it was as though someone put pillows down there. But he was the pillows? He could move? He had a body? He threw the covers off to discover a full body!"

Crowley brandished his arms wildly, demonstrating his point.

"He jumped out of his bed and darted through the bedroom door, and all the way out the front door before his parents had even had a chance to respond to all the noise. Across the lawn he ran, fast as any regular boy he'd ever seen. This was amazing! He was a regular boy!

He reached the pavement of the street separating his yard from the field where the boys were playing ball. In a sheer moment of triumph, the new regular boy reached the center of the street, gaining speed, and all the other regular boys turned their heads toward him...

Their surprise gave way to horror as the blare of the horn of an 18-wheeler preceded the sickening "thwack" sound as the full weight of that vehicle slammed into the kid at a full 55 miles per hour, completely obliterating him."

When it got to this part, Crowley smashed his hands together with a sickeningly realistic crunching noise.

"It was all slow motion, but it happened so fast. And if that kid had any shoes on him, they'd have been knocked clear to Heaven.

That little boy's family buried him two days later. All the regular boys attended. It was a solemn occasion, but they remembered the headstone the most. The headstone said: 'QUIT WHILE YOU'RE AHEAD'."

There was a moment of silence as everyone processed the joke.

The first person to get it was Beelzebub, who closed her eyes tightly and tried to imagine she was anywhere but here. The second person was Ligur, who let his head drop back with a groan. Dagon was next, then a few scattered demons.

Hastur shoved his fist into his mouth and screamed.


	5. Nate the Snake

Under the guise of introducing a new evil idea, Crowley had wiggled his way into Hell once more, and Beelzebub was moments from finding a new home for her multitude of knives.

This time, Crowley had managed to gather a crowd of over a dozen demons, all milling around awkwardly and waiting for Crowley to start. Beelzebub, unfortunately, found herself in the front, in between Hastur and Dagon. Tightening her jaw, she sank down in her seat and hoped this story had some evil in it.

"Whoo, okay, is everyone here?" Crowley called. "Alright. Listen close. You better be commending me for how it took me to memorize this whole thing."

"Get on with it," Hastur said.

"Fine, fine. Okay." Crowley shook out his fingers and sat down. "So, there's a man crawling through the desert. He'd decided to try his SUV in a little bit of cross-country travel, had great fun zooming over the badlands and through the sand, got lost, hit a big rock, and then he couldn't get it started again. There were no cell phone towers anywhere, so his cell phone was useless. He had no family, his parents had died a few years before in an accident, and his few friends had no idea he was out here.

He stayed with the car for a day or so, but his one bottle of water ran out and he was getting thirsty. He thought maybe he knew the direction back, now that he'd paid attention to the sun and thought he'd figured out which way was north, so he decided to start walking. He figured he only had to go about 30 miles or so and he'd be back to the small town he'd gotten gas in last.

He thinks about walking at night to avoid the heat and sun, but based upon how dark it actually was the night before, and given that he has no flashlight, he's afraid that he'll break a leg or step on a rattlesnake. So, he puts on some sunblock, puts the rest in his pocket for later, brings an umbrella for a little shade, pours the windshield wiper fluid into his water bottle in case he gets that desperate, brings his pocket knife in case he finds a cactus that looks like it might have water in it, and heads out in the direction he thinks is right."

"There are so many unnecessary details in this," Dagon said, already bored.

"That's the point," Crowley said. "I'll keep going. He walks for the entire day. By the end of the day he's really thirsty. He's been sweating all day, and his lips are starting to crack. He's reapplied the sunblock twice, and tried to stay under the umbrella, but he still feels sunburned. The windshield wiper fluid sloshing in the bottle in his pocket is really getting tempting now. He knows that it's mainly water and some ethanol and coloring, but he also knows that they add some kind of poison to it to keep people from drinking it. He wonders what the poison is, and whether the poison would be worse than dying of thirst.

By the end of the day he starts getting worried. If his estimate was right that he should be close to the town. But he doesn't recognize any of this. He had to cross a dry creek bed a mile or two back, and he doesn't remember coming through it in the SUV. He figures that maybe he got his direction off just a little and that the dry creek bed was just off to one side of his path.

He tells himself that he's close, and that after dark he'll start seeing the town lights over one of these hills, and that'll be all he needs.

As it gets dim enough that he starts stumbling over small rocks and things, he finds a spot and sits down to wait for full dark and the town lights.

Full dark comes before he knows it. He must have dozed off."

Ligur yawned. Hastur kicked him.

Crowley continued, "he wakes up the next morning feeling absolutely lousy. His mouth and nose feel like they're full of sand. He so thirsty that he can't even swallow. He barely got any sleep because it was so cold. He'd forgotten how cold it got at night in the desert.

He knows the Rule of Threes - three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food - then you die. Some people can make it a little longer, in the best situations. But this isn't the best situation. He figures, unless he finds water, this is his last day.

He rinses his mouth out with a little of the windshield wiper fluid. He waits a while after spitting that little bit out, to see if his mouth goes numb, or he feels dizzy or something. Has his mouth gone numb? Is it just in his mind? He's not sure. He'll go a little farther, and if he still doesn't find water, he'll try drinking some of the fluid."

As far as lengthy descriptions go, this was ridiculous. Everyone was trying their hardest to listen, but Crowley went on and on and on about the desert and the ramblings of a dehydrated man until even the most invested demon was growing bored.

Sometime during the story, the guy started drinking the wiper fluid. Hastur leaned forward, interested.

Then, it started to describe sand dunes and drinking more ethanol and the delirious thoughts of the dying guy that had even Dagon raising her eyebrows in surprise.

"So, seeing the large, flat, dark spot on the sand is still there, he begins to crawl towards it," Crowley said. "He'd get up and walk towards it, but he doesn't seem to have the energy to get up and walk right now. He must be in the final stages of dehydration he figures, as he crawls. If this place in the sand doesn't have water, he'll likely never make it anywhere else. This is his last chance.

He gets closer and closer, but still can't see what's in the middle of the dark area. His eyes won't quite focus any more for some reason. And lifting his head up to look takes so much effort that he gives up trying. He just keeps crawling.

Finally, he reaches the area he'd seen from the dune. It takes him a minute of crawling on it before he realizes that he's no longer on sand - he's now crawling on some kind of dark stone. Stone with some kind of marking on it - a pattern cut into the stone. He's too tired to stand up and try to see what the pattern is - so he just keeps crawling. He crawls towards the center, where his blurry eyes still see something in the middle of the dark stone area."

"How long is this?" a random demon interrupted.

"However long you want it to be," Crowley replied. "His mind, detached in a strange way, notes that either his hands and knees are so burnt by the sand that they no longer feel pain, or that this dark stone, in the middle of a burning desert with a pounding, punishing sun overhead, doesn't seem to be hot. It almost feels cool. He considers lying down on the nice cool surface.

Cool, dark stone. Not a good sign. He must be hallucinating this. He's probably in the middle of a patch of sand, already lying face down and dying, and just imagining this whole thing. A desert mirage. Soon the beautiful women carrying pitchers of water will come up and start giving him a drink. Then he'll know he's gone.

He decides against laying down on the cool stone. If he's going to die here in the middle of this hallucination, he at least wants to see what's in the center before he goes. He keeps crawling.

It's the third time that he hears the voice before he realizes what he's hearing. He would swear that someone just said, 'greetings, traveler. You do not look well. Do you hear me?'"

A demon in the back summoned a bag of popcorn and began sharing it with those around him.

"He stops crawling. He leans back and tries to sit up on the stone. After a few seconds, he catches his balance, avoids falling on his face, sits up, and tries to focus his eyes. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hands and tries again.

Yep. He can see. He's sitting in the middle of a large, flat, dark expanse of stone. Directly next to him, about three feet away, is a white post or pole sticking up at an angle out of the stone.

And wrapped around this white rod, tail with rattle on it hovering and seeming to be ready to start rattling, is what must be a fifteen foot long desert diamondback rattlesnake, looking directly at him."

"I hate snakes," Beelzebub mumbled.

Crowley continued, "He stares at the snake in shock. He doesn't have the energy to get up and run away. He doesn't even have the energy to crawl away. This is it, his final resting place. No matter what happens, he's not going to be able to move from this spot."

The story described the snake a bit more, musing over whether it's someone's pet or not, the guy tried to drink more wiper fluid, then he heard a voice.

"He tries again. Ignoring the snake, he turns to look around him, hoping to spot the owner of this place, and croaks out, 'Hello? Is there anyone here?'

From his side: 'Greetings. What is it that you want?'

He turns his head, back towards the snake. That's where the sound had seemed to come from. The only thing he can think of is that there must be a speaker, hidden under the snake, or maybe built into that post. He decides to try asking for help.

'Please,' he croaks again, 'I'd love to not be thirsty anymore. I've been a long time without water. Can you help me?'

Looking in the direction of the snake, hoping to see where the voice was coming from this time, he is shocked to see the snake rear back, open its mouth, and speak. He hears it say: 'Very well. Coming up.'

A piercing pain shoots through his shoulder. Suddenly he is awake. He sits up and grabs his shoulder, wincing at the throbbing pain. He's momentarily disoriented as he looks around, and then he remembers - the crawl across the sand, the dark area of stone, the snake. He sees the snake, still wrapped around the tilted white post, still looking at him.

He reaches up and feels his shoulder, where it hurts. It feels slightly wet. He pulls his fingers away and looks at them - blood. He feels his shoulder again - his shirt has what feels like two holes in it - two puncture holes - they match up with the two aching spots of pain on his shoulder. He had been bitten. By the snake."

"What the fuck, even," Ligur said, at the same time Hastur said, "holy shit."

"Is this story about you?" Beelzebub asked Crowley.

Crowley shrugged a bit.

Then the snake and guy started to talk and this whole story just devolved into madness, but what was even more of an impressive feat is how Crowley had memorized the whole fucking thing.

"'Sorry about that, but I had to bite you,' says the snake. 'That's the way I work. It all comes through the bite. Think of it as natural medicine.'

'You bit me to help me? Why aren't I thirsty any more? Did you give me a drink before you bit me? How did I drink enough while unconscious to not be thirsty anymore? I haven't had a drink for over two days. Well, except for the windshield wiper fluid... hold it, how in the world does a snake talk? Are you real? Are you some sort of Disney animation?'

'No,' says the snake, 'I'm real. As real as you or anyone is, anyway. I didn't give you a drink. I bit you. That's how it works - it's what I do. I bite. I don't have hands to give you a drink, even if I had water just sitting around here. I might suggest that we take care of that methanol you now have in your system with the next request," continues the snake. "I can guess why you drank it, but I'm not sure how much you drank, or how much methanol was left in the wiper fluid. That stuff is nasty. It'll make you go blind in a day or two, if you drank enough of it."

"Um, n-next request?" says the man. He puts his hand back on his aching shoulder.

'That's the way it works. If you like, that is,' explains the snake. 'You get three requests. Call them wishes, if you wish.' The snake grinned at his own joke, and the man drew back a little further from the show of fangs.

'But there are rules,' the snake says. 'The first request is free. The second requires an agreement of secrecy. The third requires the binding of responsibility.'

'By the way,' the snake says suddenly, 'my name is Nathan. Old Nathan, Samuel used to call me. He gave me the name. Before that, most of the Bound used to just call me 'Snake'. But Samuel wouldn't stand for it. He said that anything that could talk needed a name. He was big into names. You can call me Nate, if you wish.' Again, the snake grinned. 'Sorry if I don't offer to shake, but I think you can understand; my shake sounds somewhat threatening.' The snake gives his rattle a little shake.

'Um, my name is Jack,' said the man. 'Jack Samson.'"

**(I'm going to omit a bunch of this because it's so fucking long I better just recap: Basically, Nate the Snake can grant one request free, and a second request if the person is also bound to secrecy. There's also a white lever that, when pushed, will end the human race. To have a third request from Nate, you have to promise to push the lever if you deem it necessary. Also, the place that they're at is basically the Garden of Eden.)**

"Occasionally Jack, with his toes absentmindedly digging in the sand while he thought, would ask Nate a question without turning around.

'Nate, do accidents count?'

Nate lifted his head a little bit. 'What do you mean, Jack?'

Jack tilted his head back like he was looking at the stars. 'You know, accidents. If I accidentally fall on the lever, without meaning to, does that still wipe out humanity?'

'Yeah, I'm pretty sure it does, Jack. I'd suggest you be careful about that if you start feeling wobbly,' said Nate with some amusement.

'Does it have to be me that pulls the lever?' asked Jack.

'That's the rule, Jack. Nobody else can pull it,' answered Nate.

'No,' Jack shook his head, 'I meant does it have to be my hand? Could I pull the lever with a rope tied around it? Or push it with a stick? Or throw a rock?'

'Yes, those should work,' replied Nate. 'Though I'm not sure how complicated you could get. Samuel thought about trying to build some kind of remote control for it once, but gave it up. Everything he'd build would be gone by the next sunrise, if it was touching the stone, or over it. I told him that in the past others that had been bound had tried to bury the lever so they wouldn't be tempted to pull it, but every time the stones or sand or whatever had disappeared.'

'Wow,' said Jack. 'Cool.' He leaned back until only his elbows kept him off of the stone and looked up into the sky.

'Nate, how long did Samuel live? One of his wishes was for health too, right?' asked Jack.

'Yes,' replied Nate, 'it was. He lived 167 years, Jack.'

'Wow, 167 years. That's almost 140 more years I'll live if I live as long. Do you know what he died of, Nate?'

'He died of getting tired of living, Jack,' Nate said, sounding somewhat sad."

"Wait, wait," Ligur interrupted suddenly. "I thought this was a joke. Like the others. But this seems like a fully-fledged story."

"It basically is," Crowley agreed. "The whole thing is a build-up for the joke."

"Well, that's bullshit," a demon in the back said.

"If we don't get back on track, we'll never finish this goddamn joke," Crowley said. He moved the chair, sat down on the ground, and closed his eyes to continue reciting it.

The story went on about Jack going back to society and occasionally visiting Nate to bring him news from the outside world, while Jack tried to deal with his new wisdom and the knowledge that he'll outlive everyone. Finally, Jack was back visiting Nate when the snake introduced him to someone new.

"After a few minutes, Nate spoke. 'Jack, I have someone to introduce you to.'

Jack looked surprised. 'Someone to introduce me to?' He looked around, and then looked carefully back at Nate. 'This something to do with the Big Guy?'

'No, no,' replied Nate. 'This is more personal. I want you to meet my son.' Nate looked over at the nearest sand dune. 'Sammy!'

Jack watched as a four foot long desert rattlesnake crawled from behind the dune and up to the stone base of the lever.

'Hi, Jack,' said the new, much smaller snake.

'Hi, Sammy,' replied Jack. He looked at Nate. 'Named after Samuel, I assume?'

Nate nodded. 'Jack, I've got a favor to ask you. Could you show Sammy around for me?" Nate unwrapped himself from the lever and slithered over to the edge of the stone and looked across the sands. "When Samuel first told me about the world, and brought me books and pictures, I wished that I could go see it. I wanted to see the great forests, the canyons, the cities, even the other deserts, to see if they felt and smelled the same. I want my son to have that chance - to see the world. Before he becomes bound here like I have been.

He's seen it in pictures, over the computer that you brought me. But I hear that it's not the same. That being there is different. I want him to have that. Think you can do that for me, Jack?'"

Beelzebub blanked out for a while, and when she focused back on the story, Jack was taking the snake Sammy on a tour around the world until he had to fulfil Nate's request of having Jack kill him.

"When they got back to the US, Jack got the old RV out of storage where he and Sammy had left it after their tour of the fifty states, he loaded up Sammy and the sword, and they headed for the desert.

As Jack was afraid that if he waited one more night he might lose his resolve, he decided that he'd go ahead and drive the RV out there. It was only going to be this once, and he'd go back and cover the tracks afterward. They ought to be able to make it out there by nightfall if they drove, and then they could get it over tonight.

Everything went well, until they got to the sand dunes. When they came to the dunes, Jack didn't really think about it, he just downshifted and headed up the first one. By the third dune, Jack started to regret that he'd decided to try driving on the sand. The RV was fishtailing and losing traction. Jack was having to work it up each dune slowly and was trying to keep from losing control each time they came over the top and slid down the other side. Sammy had come up to sit in the passenger seat, coiled up and laughing at Jack's driving.

As they came over the top of the fourth dune, the biggest one yet, Jack saw that this was the final dune - the stone, the lever, and somewhere Nate, waited below. Jack put on the brakes, but he'd gone a little too far. The RV started slipping down the other side.

Jack felt a shock go through him as he suddenly realized that they were heading for the lever. He looked down - the RV was directly on course for it. If Jack didn't do something, the RV would hit it.

He was about to end humanity."

"Where the fuck is the joke?" Hastur cried.

Everyone was on the edge of their seats, desperate to hear the ending. Crowley was barely keeping himself together.

"In a split second, Jack realized that his only chance would be once he hit the stone around the lever - he should have traction on the stone for just a second before he hit the lever - he wouldn't have time to stop, but he should be able to steer away." Crowley leaned forward a bit, his voice dropping with the tension of the story. "The RV got to the bottom of the dune, sliding at an amazing speed in the sand. Suddenly, Jack noticed something else that he hadn't seen from the top of the dune.

Nate wasn't wrapped around the lever. He was off to the side of the lever, but still on the stone, waiting for them. The problem was, he was waiting on the same side of the lever that Jack had picked to steer towards to avoid the lever.

Jack had an instant of realization. He was either going to have to hit the lever, or run over Nate. He glanced over at Sammy and saw that Sammy realized the same thing."

Crowley stifled a laugh. "Shouting to Sammy as Jack pulled the wheel, ' _Better Nate than lever!'_ , he ran over the snake."

There was dead silence for .02 seconds before Hell erupted into a cacophony of pained screeching and quite creative strings of curses. High-pitched wails rose up from the demons who'd realized they wasted an hour of their eternal lives on a ten-thousand word build-up for a horrible corny pun.

Ligur had to physically restrain Hastur from lunging at Crowley and discorporating him on the spot, Dagon did in fact discorporate herself, a few demons spontaneously burst into flames, and all the while, Crowley was howling with laughter as the denizens of Hell dissolved into chaos.

Beelzebub stormed up onto the stage, hauled up Crowley by his collar, and literally threw him out of Hell.

"The next snake getting run over is you," she hissed darkly, before slamming the gates of Hell and permanently locking Crowley out until further notice.

* * *

Several days later, Crowley sat in Aziraphale's bookshop and clinked his glass with the angel's.

A mischievous grin curved his lips. "Hey, angel, I've got a real great joke for you to tell Gabriel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha if you want the full version of this monstrosity, go to this link: https://natethesnake.com/  
> (im literally not kidding the full version is like 10000 words of bullshit)


End file.
